


The Adventure Of The Old Fox-Hunter (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [147]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Fetish Clothing, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Poison, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 07:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11398074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: What goes around, comes around – and apparently, that rule applies in the animal kingdom, too. Another case in rural Lincolnshire, where Sherlock gives his friend an unusual history lesson.





	The Adventure Of The Old Fox-Hunter (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'Sir James Saunders, whom Sherlock helped'.

It was , as I have said before, uncommon for someone whom we had met on a previous case to re-enter our lives. The instance of Mrs. Cecil Forrester, whom we had helped out on two occasions, was a very rare exception indeed. In this matter that I am about to relate, the person returning was immensely (in the true sense of that word!) memorable, although he only provided an introduction to the case that I am about to relate.

It was a late spring day in the city, and I was feeling pleasantly languid as I lounged in our main room at 221B. I had just returned from depositing a cheque from my publisher's, so even my bank manager was (very briefly) happy. And there would be apple pie for dessert that evening, as well.

My happy thoughts were interrupted by the bell that indicated a visitor had arrived. It was only one bell, so it was not someone we knew (it was highly unlikely to be Inspector Henriksen, because there was no cake that day) – and Sherlock, who was reading near the device, pressed to have the person sent up. I was surprised, a few moments later, to hear what sounded like the Dutchman's heavy tread on our stairs, but not as surprised when a familiar figure came through the door. 

And then stood up. It was Mr. Vulcan Iden-Goring, better known to us as 'the Hammersmith Wonder'.

+~+~+

The massive blacksmith looked decidedly ill-at-ease in smart clothes, and bowed to us.

“Sirs”, he rumbled.

“Take a seat, my friend”, Sherlock smiled, smirking as I did not move round to not hide behind the table. “It has been six years, and it is a pleasure to see you again. Your business and.... Mr. De'Ath prosper, I take it?”

The behemoth seated himself carefully on the couch, which fortunately held his muscular bulk. Although I was sure that I detected a slight creak.

“Jamie is fine”, he said, smiling softly at the mention of his lover's name. “I am here today because he.... well, he made me.”

I wondered how Mr. Mortimer James De'Ath, who was nearly two feet shorter than and about half the sheer bulk of the man before us, could 'make' him do anything. But then, I supposed, some men would do anything for love....

It really was damnably unfair of Sherlock to choose that moment to send me a knowing look!

“It's about my elder brother, Heffie”, our visitor said. “Hephæstus; our mother had a thing for old names. He's a smith back in Lincolnshire, and he wrote me last week that he was worried about one of his horses.”

“You are from that part of the world then?” Sherlock asked. The smith smiled.

“Country boys who come to London get teased if they keep their old tongue, sir”, he said. “I lost it soon enough.”

I found it hard to imagine anyone being dumb enough to try to tease the man-mountain in front of us. It would surely have only happened very, very briefly.

“Heffie works all the estates around Bourne, where his smithery is”, our visitor said. “One of them is a place called “Two Saints”, the house of an old fellow by name of Sir James Saunders. I don't know him, but Heffie said once that he's a fine old gentleman, and always pays on time, unlike so many.”

_(Sir James Saunders, as anyone of that time would have known, was a lot more than 'a fine old gentleman'. He had been one of Her Majesty's chief gentleman attending, and had retired to his house in the country only the year before due to his declining health. I only knew that because I may, on the odd occasion, have happened to take a quick glance at the society pages once in a while. _And someone could stop smirking right this minute, damn him!)._ _

__

__

“Heffie said in his last letter that someone is threatening to kill Sir James' old fox-hunter”, the smith said, frowning. “Horse called Gildardus, a bay beauty, but like his owner getting on in years. Sir James does not ride him to hounds any more, but one of the lads at the stables told my brother that the maid he is seeing up at the house said that there had been two threatening letters, saying that they would 'get' the horse.”

“Why target a poor old horse?” I wondered. “And why say that you are going to do it beforehand? Surely the animal is kept in a stable, so breaking into it would be fairly easy?”

Our visitor scratched his head.

“I do not like it, sirs”, he said. “Heffie is sure that the family is in on it, somehow. He knew of your, uh, helping me that time, and wrote asking if I would put it to you gentlemen. I thought it a waste of your time, but Jamie.... well, he was insistent.”

Again the slight smile at his lover's name. I was glad that he was so very happy.

“Mr. De'Ath was quite correct in his assumption”, Sherlock said, to my surprise. “We shall take this case, and we shall be sure to keep you informed of any developments.”

+~+~+

“If only to stop him coming round and asking!” Sherlock added once the behemoth had departed. “We cannot have an English doctor quivering behind the table!”

“I did not 'quiver'!” I protested. “I was merely... adjusting my chair.”

“You are so full of it!” he grinned. “But once I return from sending that telegram, I shall remedy that.”

“How?” I asked, still not pouting.

“By filling you with something else!” he grinned. “Be ready!”

Reader, I was.

+~+~+

There was a further development later that same day in the ongoing drama surrounding Mr. Lucius Holmes, and his relationship with his cousin, Mr. Samandriel Tyler. When the story had broken recently, Sherlock's formidable (as in terrifying) mother had been away visiting a friend in the Far North of Scotland, and had just returned. She had assessed the situation, and decided that there would be no familial breach with her second son, much (Sherlock told me) to the evident displeasure of her sons Mycroft and Ranulph. The latter had been particularly outspoken on the matter in his mother's presence, but would be out of hospital in a few days, once they had taped up his broken jaw.

+~+~+

The village of Little Bytham, outside which “Two Saints” lay, was on the East Coast route to Scotland, but Sherlock decided to first call in on our giant client's brother, Mr. Hephæstus Iden-Goring, in the town of Bourne. This proved more difficult to reach, as we would have to change both at Peterborough and then again at Essendine Junction. We set out the following day, as I was making good progress with my writings and Sherlock had no cases of import that demanded his presence in the capital. 

After our earlier Lincolnshire case, I was fully expecting Kesteven to be as flat as the adjoining Part of Holland, and was pleasantly surprised that, although far from hilly, the terrain seemed to occasionally remember that it could exist in all three dimensions. Bourne itself was a pleasant little town, and our Goliath of a client had recommended us to stay at the Bull & Swan Inn, which his brother had told him was a good place. Mr. Hephæstus Iden-Goring would attend us there the evening of our arrival if we sent a message round to his smithy, which we did.

I had, if truth be told, been somewhat dreading having to meet this second Iden-Goring, thinking that he might be built along the same lines as the 'Hammersmith Wonder'. In fact he was almost disappointingly normal, similar in size and build to Sherlock but with squarer facial features and his giant brother's dark hazel eyes. He was surprisingly mannerly for someone who worked in so rough a profession, although I supposed that having to be round so much nobility in the area may have led to that.

“I am glad that Vul is doing well for himself”, the smith smiled. “Our father, sorry to say, is exceptionally narrow-minded when it comes to such things, and our mother is too weak to oppose him. That was why Vul went to London; I myself only see her nowadays when he is elsewhere.”

“Families can be difficult things”, Sherlock sympathized (i thought acidly that he would know, and got an almost instant sharp look for my pains). “You told your brother about a problem you had with one Sir James Saunders?”

The smith nodded.

“Sir James is a big noise in these parts”, he said, “despite his being all but retired now. He is a good man though, unlike some as I could mention. And he's very attached to Gildardus, his old fox-hunter. I know that it really upset him when he was told by his doctor that he should not ride to hounds any more.”

“I am wagering that he tried anyway?” Sherlock smiled. The smith nodded.

“No-one else is allowed to ride the animal”, he said, “but after his doctor had visited, I had to re-shoe him and noted that he had been out once or twice. He lives in small annex attached to the main stables, and has a field to go out in when he wants. He is getting on in horse years, and it was good of Sir James to treat him that way. Not many would.”

“Why does he not live with the rest of the horses?” I asked. The smith grinned.

“That's his little foible”, he said. “I've seen him out riding, and most of the time he's perfectly well-behaved – unless there's a storm around. Most animals cower inside when the thunder and lightning start; he kicks his door open and goes out for a mad gallop. Strange, because when it comes to shoeing him, he's as docile as a lamb.”

“There are worse failings than a love of bad weather”, Sherlock smiled. “Your brother said that you suspected someone in the family of being behind these threats against the animal?” 

The smith's face darkened.

“Them lot!” he said, his voice suddenly full of vitriol. “I wouldn't trust them to give me the time of day!”

“Please tell us about them”, Sherlock said. “Slowly if you do not mind; when people speak too fast, the doctor's dreadful scrawl becomes like a set of Egyptian hieroglyphs!”

I scowled at him for that. And the smith did not need to laugh, either!

“There's three of them apart from his nibs”, he said. “Sir James' eldest, Lord Corby, is about forty years of age, and if his abilities matched his sheer bloody arrogance, the estate would be fine. Named for his father, though everyone calls him Jack. I suppose it was lucky in a way that he got left in charge of the estate whilst his father was in hospital for a few weeks last winter; from what I heard, he made a right pig's ear of it! Now Sir James is having second thoughts about his inheriting it all.”

“Then there's Lord Jack's sister, Lady Emily”, the smith continued. “Lot of bad blood there. Sir James was all set to leave her a decent part of the estate, but she went and ran off with some chap up from London, and spent two years with him before he ditched her. I'm only amazed that it lasted two years; she's a right bossy old cow!”

I was gaining the distinct impression that the smith was not overly enamoured of the people at “Two Saints”.

“And third, there's the youngest sprog, Lord Edgar”, the smith said. “Sly, that's the word I'd use to describe him. All care and attention to his dear old dad one minute, but I've heard he behaves _very differently_ whenever he goes to Birmingham.”

“Birmingham?” Sherlock asked. “Why all the way there?”

“Sir James has invested in a few factories in and around there”, the smith explained.

“Most interesting”, Sherlock said. 

He looked hard at the smith, who fidgeted for some reason. I knew that look, and waited. Sure enough, it did not take long for the man to break under that azure focus.

“The only other person who might be involved is the stable-boy”, he said. “His name's Douglas, but everyone calls him Digger.”

“Why would the stable-boy be involved?” I wondered.

“He was the one who found the notes, in the horse's stable”, the smith explained. “I thought he might be working with someone else, perhaps.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“The obvious question”, he said at last, “is _cui bono?_ Who would benefit from the death.”

“Of a horse?” I asked incredulously. Sherlock shook his head.

“Of Sir James”, he said. He looked hard at the smith. “ _That_ was the real reason that you called us in, was it not? This is more than a threat made against an unknowing equine. Someone is hoping to get at your noble client through his favourite horse.”

The smith reddened, but nodded.

“Sir James is pretty decent, for a toff”, he said. “We could do a lot worse - 'specially when I look at his offspring.”

Sherlock sighed heavily.

“It looks as if I shall have to resort to the offices of my annoying brother”, he said. “I have to know the contents of that will.”

“Oh, I can tell you that sir”, the smith said. 

We both looked at him in astonishment.

“How?” I asked, beating Sherlock to the obvious question. 

“Sir James is clever, sirs”, the smith grinned. “He drew up a new will last year, and had the mayor and his wife come to the Hall and witness it. They got to read it, of course, and she.... well, she can talk the hind leg off a donkey! Everyone in the district knew the contents within days.”

“One would assume that your nobleman, knowing the area as he must, would have foreseen that”, Sherlock grinned. “What does the will say?”

“Three-quarters of the estate and money goes to the eldest son”, the smith said. “Lord Edgar and Lady Emily each get ten per cent, but only the income from it; the rest goes to servants and some local charities. So if Lord Corby messes up, his kin might end up with next to nothing. The other thing I know is that the staff got money according to how long they'd been there.”

“Including this 'Digger'?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes”, the smith said, "although he's not been there long so he won't get much. Still, Sir James is a generous old soul. Even I got named in it, would you believe?”

Sherlock seemed lost in thought for some time. Then he smiled.

“You did not mention if either of the two nobleman's sons were married”, he said.

“Women round here have better taste!” the smith snorted. I smiled.

“And the family is not an old one, I believe?” Sherlock asked. I looked at him in surprise.

“Not round here”, the smith said, also obviously surprised at the question. My late grandfather used to talk about the Wellses, who had the place in his time. I think they lost all their money somehow, and had to sell up to Sir James' father. He was a right tartar and all!”

“Is there a Lady Saunders?” 

“Which one?” the smith grinned. “The first one was a local girl, who he took up with when he was just Mr. Saunders of Bourne. His parents put a stop to that, and he married the current one, Lady Patricia, a couple of years after. I didn't mention her because she doesn't connect with Earth that often. Totally away with the fairies, although if I had children like hers and I had the money to do it, perhaps I'd be that way inclined too. She's away somewhere on the Lancashire coast at some commune or other just now.”

“His wife is not mentioned in the will?” I asked, surprised.

“She inherited a large sum from her own father”, the smith said. “But she only gets to draw the interest from it, and when she dies, the capital all goes to charity. Her father did not think much of her offspring, by the looks of it!”

“Regretfully, I shall still have to call in the offices of Bacchus”, Sherlock sighed. “And tomorrow, we shall pay a call on the lady mayoress. After that, we should be done.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“You know who is behind those threats?” I asked.

“It does seem quite obvious”, he said airily. “A few more checks to be sure, and we shall be able to bring things to a conclusion, hopefully without anyone meeting an untimely end.”

In that hope, he was to be disappointed.

+~+~+

The following day we set out to see if we could obtain an appointment with the mayor's wife, for whatever reason Sherlock wanted to talk to her about. We were walking down the High Street when I saw something in a shop-window that made me chuckle.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked. I pointed to a dress-hire shop, which had a display in the front window of some old-time Roman paraphernalia. 

“Remember the Armsworth Castle case?” I asked, not adding that that had been seven years back and the other side of the dreadful 'Hellatus'. “The dreadful Mrs. Huffington-Brand and all those theatrical costumes that she detested?”

“Yes”, he smiled, although he looked confused. “What of it?”

I pointed to the Roman display.

“That was one of the costumes that we found there”, I said, pointing to the dress made out of leather straps. “It just reminded me.”

“Pteruges”, Sherlock said. 

“Pardon?”

“That is the name for that item of apparel”, he said. “Some Roman warriors would have emblems from great battles engraved into each strip.”

“Oh.”

Too late. He looked at me, and a knowing smile spread across his features.

“That sort of thing excites you”, he said, in the sort of voice that no English doctor should be subjected to unawares in a Lincolnshire high street. "I saw you looking at the one in the castle. Bad boy!"

I took a deep breath and tried to regain what little remained of my composure. Which was very little.

“We are out in public!” I hissed. 

“I am sure that they hire it out”, Sherlock grinned. “I can picture it now; the brave gladiator Sherlockus returning after his latest victory to claim his reward from his handsome page Ionus.”

If I had got any redder, I am sure that I would have run the risk of exploding. Fortunately he walked on away from the shop and, once I could breathe and had made a few 'adjustments' to myself, I was able to follow him. The case would distract him, and he would forget all about this.

All right, I admit it. I really _was_ that idiotic! 

+~+~+

Mrs. Gertrude Shilling was sixty if she was a day, with badly-dyed hair that, I assumed, was meant to be purple. That, of course, did not stop her from simpering at Sherlock. Thankfully his questions to her were few, and we were soon on our way. 

“What did you mean when you asked her about the will?” I asked, as we left the town behind us and headed west, presumably to visit Sir James Saunders. “Did you think that she was lying, originally?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I think rather that what she said and what people _thought_ she said might be two slightly different things”, he said. “You know how, the more times a tale is told, it diverges from the original story. And in this case, that divergence might be the difference between life and death.”

And that left me more confused that ever!

+~+~+

We crossed under the Great Northern Railway's main line and entered Little Bytham, but Sherlock only drove to the far end of the village, where he drew up outside a rather attractive church.

“St. Medard and St. Gildard”, he said, looking at the sign. “The only church dedicated to them in all England, and the latter of whom gave his name to the horse in our drama. We are meeting someone here.”

Sure enough, we entered the little church to find a man waiting for us. But not the one that I had been expecting.

“Douglas”, Sherlock beamed. “So good of you to come and see us.”

The stable-boy, for presumably it was he, was small and thin, and frankly looked as if a strong wind might pick him up and deposit him in the North Sea, many miles east of here. 

“Sirs?” he quavered.

“I have but two questions to ask you”, Sherlock said briskly. He took out a notebook and pencil, and passed both over to the boy. “You will find four names on that list. Kindly place a cross next to the person in the house who has been passing you those threatening messages to leave in the stables.”

The boy went pale, and his hand was shaking as he took the notebook and made a mark before passing it back. Sherlock's face darkened.

“Now”, he said, “we come to the crux of the matter. When is the horse to be killed?”

I feared that the boy might pass out, and it took him some considerable time to manage an answer.

“Tonight”, he spluttered. “They.... they heard of your being in the area, sir.”

I wondered who 'they' were. Presumably more than one person. Sherlock nodded, apparently satisfied.

“I am going to be brutally frank with you, Douglas”, he said. “The position is very bad. Very, _very_ bad. You may believe – indeed, I am sure that you have been led to believe - that your role in this matter is a minor one and that you will evade any sanction for it. I can most heartily assure you that in my long experience, an English court will see things quite differently. You are looking at many, many years in a gaol system that, as I am sure you know, is not a good place at all for boys of your tender age.”

The boy whined in fear.

“However”, Sherlock said, “you have been wise enough to _somewhat_ remedy matters by speaking truth to me, and that inclines me to offer you some chance of restitution. You may feel inclined, despite the way that they have selfishly inveigled you into their crime, to warn those planning this attack once you return. If you do that, then no power on earth can save you from the consequences. If however they remain unaware of your talking to me, then I swear on the Good Book that I will speak up for you when the time comes. Remember, either way - _I will know!”_

The boy moaned, but managed a strangled 'thank you' before bolting from the church. I stared after him, more confused than ever.

“We shall adjourn to the local tavern for a few hours”, Sherlock said. “Tonight, with luck, we shall prevent a death.”

We did. And yet, we did not.

+~+~+

We had some time to wait, as it was not far short of Midsummer's Day, which meant that it did not get dark until ten o'clock. By that time we had driven to the wall around Sir James Saunders' estate, and Sherlock had of course effortlessly picked the lock of a gate in it. It was hot, and I hoped that it was not going to rain. Of course that thought was barely in my mind when I felt the first heavy splash on my coat. I glared upwards.

There was a large field fenced off behind what was obviously a stable block, and I could see the small annex in which, presumably, the old fox-hunter lived. We made our way around the fence towards it, but as we drew near, I spotted something. A figure was making its way around towards the annex, which I thought odd considering that it was now fairly bucketing down.

“Come!” Sherlock called, setting off at a run. I loped after him as best I could; I had longer legs, but somehow his smaller frame managed to yield more speed, and he drew ahead.

There was a flash of lightning, followed only a second later by a rumble of thunder. That meant that the storm was barely a mile away, I knew. We were nearly at the annex now, and could hear the excited whinnying of the horse inside. I wondered why he was not out 'enjoying' the storm as we had been told, but I soon had my answer. Following Sherlock inside the building, I saw a figure lying prone in front of the stable door. 

Before we could reach it, the door flew open, kicked through by the excited horse who bolted out through the door that I, thankfully, had left open. In exiting, he ran right over the intruder......

+~+~+

It was some little time later. There was nothing I could have done for the victim; even had they not been trampled by several tons of unstoppable horse-flesh, the syringe that I had found next to them had been driven into them by the horse's charge, and it had contained enough poison to kill the animal. On a human, it had proven just as deadly.

Sir James Saunders looked bewildered by our stormy advent, and I silently thanked the Lord that at least we did not have to deal with his family as well. His daughter had been shocked by developments, and both her brothers were upstairs consoling her.

“Who was it?” the nobleman asked. “And what were they doing out there in this weather?”

Sherlock sighed deeply.

“I have a long tale to tell you, sir”, he said. “I am afraid that it is not good news.”

He sipped at the coffee that, mercifully, had arrived, and began.

“Your local blacksmith, Mr. Iden-Goring, requested that I be brought in on the case of threats being made against your horse”, he said. “He is a wise man who believed - and I concurred with that opinion - that the threats to your horse were in fact a cover for a threat against your good self. I made some inquiries, and quickly established that in the event of your untimely demise, then your eldest son would receive the bulk of your estate.”

“Jack would never do anything like that!” the nobleman said stoutly, though I noticed the look of doubt in his eyes as he said it. 

“It all seemed rather strange”, Sherlock mused. “Your eldest son had neither a pressing need for money, nor seemingly a character that suggested any inclination to kill. Nor did he. However, there is a body to be accounted for, and as you know, it is that of one of your footmen, a Mr. Hammond.”

“But why would he attack the horse?” the nobleman asked, bewilderedly.

“I often remark”, Sherlock said, “that when one has eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I decided to look at this matter in another way. I approached Mrs. Shilling, and asked her about her witnessing of your will. You knew full well how local areas such as this operate, and decided to put an end to speculation about who was to get what in your family by having an inveterate gossip such as her witness it, knowing that the contents would be all over the area within days.”

The nobleman blushed, and I knew that Sherlock had found him out.

“It is interesting”, Sherlock mused, “that what people _say_ and what it is _reported that they say_ , can have the smallest differences, and yet those differences can be most instructive. In this case, well-intentioned as they doubtless were, your actions prompted the attacks on your horse.”

“What?” the nobleman exclaimed. “But how?”

“I asked Mrs. Shilling an important question”, Sherlock said. “It had been reported that your eldest son, Lord Corby, was named as the chief beneficiary in your will. But that was not actually true.”

“Sir....”

“The exact wording, which was most unfortunate – and you might wish to consider a change of lawyer over this matter – was that the estate went, and I quote, 'to your eldest son of the blood body'.”

“Jack”, the nobleman insisted. Sherlock shook his head.

I am afraid that that is not the case”, he said. “I made some inquiries, and of course I soon learnt that you had had a brief first marriage that, your parents disapproving of same, had dissolved. What neither they nor you knew at the time was that the girl was pregnant with your child, and that the child was born before the dissolution. Hence he was your son and heir.”

Sir James' face had turned ashen.

“The unfortunate wording of that will came back upon your poor horse tonight”, Sherlock said, “and had not the storm come when it had, might well have destroyed him. Your footman Hammond was in fact Mr. Philip Sanderson. His mother re-married and raised him with the rest of her family, but on his reaching his twenty-first birthday she told him of his past. Initially he thought nothing of it, until a chance visit to the area led him to discover the wording of your will. My other question to Mrs. Shilling showed that he had questioned her, and had thus realized that he could legally claim to be the rightful heir. Or, of course, there would likely be a legal challenge, but even then the family might offer to pay him generously to go away. Either way, he would be rich.”

“He quickly realizes that the horse is your weak-point, and starts leaving threatening messages in the stable. Earlier today I confronted your stable-boy Douglas, and he admitted that the man had given him notes to leave in the stables on several occasions, somewhere that his own post would not usually take him. Most unfortunately for him, the one local story that he does not pay attention to is that of the horse's reaction to foul weather such as this. When he visits the stables with a syringe to finish him off, the animal, wishing to go out and enjoy this foul weather, first kicks open his stabel door rendering his attacker unconscious, then charges out and rushes over him. In so doing, the syringe of deadly poison that the man was carrying is driven into his own, much smaller body. What would bring a slow death to a huge horse is lethal to the far smaller, human frame, and he fittingly meets the end that he had intended for your horse.”

The nobleman was silent.

“Of course”, Sherlock said quietly, “none of this needs to come out.”

Sir James looked up in surprise.

“You would lie to cover this up?” he asked, sounding more than a little dubious. Sherlock smiled.

“The man's mother has passed, but his step-family is still alive”, he said. “Nothing can be gained by setting the vultures of the press onto them; they had no part in his actions. It was unfortunate that your footman, having been instructed to check up on the horse, was killed when it stampeded over him, but I am sure that if you are generous towards his step-family, then local interest will soon wane.”

+~+~+

There is little more to be said. Sir James thanked us heartily for all our efforts on his behalf, and promised to do as Sherlock had asked. He lived on for a further nine years, oddly (and perhaps fittingly) dying just two days after his horse went to that great stables in the sky, where doubtless they hunt together as of old. With the permission of the dead man's step-family and Lord Corby's eldest son Peter (who inherited when his father predeceased his grandfather by a year), I can now publish this story.

+~+~+

Next, in the third of our run of animal-related cases, the theft of a fanged, vicious fur-generating hate-monster (or cat, as Sherlock called it) proves that some people are not as blind as others might think.


End file.
